Quotes about clang
The Firemen's Ball
SECTION ONE
"Give the engines room,
Give the engines room."
Louder, faster
The little band-master
Whips up the fluting,
Hurries up the tooting.
He thinks that he stands,
[*] The reins in his hands,
In the fire-chief's place
In the night alarm chase.
The cymbals whang,
The kettledrums bang: —
"Clear the street,
Clear the street,
Clear the street — Boom, boom.
In the evening gloom,
In the evening gloom,
Give the engines room,
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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Become A Robot
Heres hoping you dont (hoping you dont)
Become a robot (clang clang)
Clang, clang, whoops, too late
Heres hoping you dont (hoping you dont)
Become a robot (clang clang)
Clang, clang, whoops, too late
Lets stick together cause were number 8*
Lets stick to numbers cause were great*
Heres hoping you dont (hoping you dont)
Become a robot (clang clang)
Clang, clang, whoops, too late
Hey!
Wait!
Heres hoping you dont (hoping you dont)
Harbor a deathwish* (help help)
Help, help, help yourself
Heres hoping you dont (hoping you dont)
Harbor a deathwish* (help help)
Help, help, help yourself
Hip, hip, horrific are the words we sing
[...] Read more
song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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Calendar Night
This
Long hour
Of waiting
Is like that morn
When I drank thirteen
Cups of Arabica
I cling to this frail blanket
Frantically trying to abstain
From rays or forms of incandescence
I shut my mind off as if it’s a switch
But his convolutedness is Juggernaut
So once again I turn, churn, and curse in my bed
I now find myself groping for words to fill a month
I think this is how long it’ll take my darkness and I
To catch up like friends who drifted apart since graduation
Now I can hear three clocks simultaneously ticking in my ears
And the sound of the freezer is enough to turn my soda stone-cold
As thousands of little feet are hazing the ceiling into a playground
[...] Read more
poem by A.G. Bawang
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Silas Dement
It was moon-light, and the earth sparkled
With new-fallen frost.
It was midnight and not a soul abroad.
Out of the chimney of the court-house
A gray-hound of smoke leapt and chased
The northwest wind.
I carried a ladder to the landing of the stairs
And leaned it against the frame of the trap-door
In the ceiling of the portico,
And I crawled under the roof and amid the rafters
And flung among the seasoned timbers
A lighted handful of oil-soaked waste.
Then I came down and slunk away.
In a little while the fire-bell rang --
Clang! Clang! Clang!
And the Spoon River ladder company
Came with a dozen buckets and began to pour water
On the glorious bon-fire, growing hotter,
Higher and brighter, till the walls fell in,
And the limestone columns where Lincoln stood
[...] Read more
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Goliath and David
(For D. C. T., Killed at Fricourt, March, 1916)
Yet once an earlier David took
Smooth pebbles from the brook:
Out between the lines he went
To that one-sided tournament,
A shepherd boy who stood out fine
And young to fight a Philistine
Clad all in brazen mail. He swears
That he’s killed lions, he’s killed bears,
And those that scorn the God of Zion
Shall perish so like bear or lion.
But … the historian of that fight
Had not the heart to tell it right.
Striding within javelin range,
Goliath marvels at this strange
Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength.
David’s clear eye measures the length;
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Graves
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Lady Constance
My Love, my Lord,
I think the toil of glorious day is done.
I see thee leaning on thy jewelled sword,
And a light-hearted child of France
Is dancing to thee in the sun,
And thus he carols in his dance.
'Oh, a gallant sans peur
Is the merry chasseur,
With his fanfaron horn and his rifle ping-pang!
And his grand havresack
Of gold on his back,
His pistol cric-crac!
And his sword cling-clang!
Oh, to see him blithe and gay
From some hot and bloody day,
Come to dance the night away till the bugle blows 'au rang,'
[...] Read more
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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1777
I
The Trumpet-Vine Arbour
The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open,
And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight.
They bray and blare at the burning sky.
Red! Red! Coarse notes of red,
Trumpeted at the blue sky.
In long streaks of sound, molten metal,
The vine declares itself.
Clang! -- from its red and yellow trumpets.
Clang! -- from its long, nasal trumpets,
Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise.
I sit in the cool arbour, in a green-and-gold twilight.
It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets,
I only know that they are red and open,
And that the sun above the arbour shakes with heat.
My quill is newly mended,
[...] Read more
poem by Amy Lowell
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William and Helen
I.
From heavy dreams fair Helen rose,
And eyed the dawning red:
'Alas, my love, thou tarriest long!
O art thou false or dead?'-
II.
With gallant Fred'rick's princely power
He sought the bold Crusade;
But not a word from Judah's wars
Told Helen how he sped.
III.
With Paynim and with Saracen
At length a truce was made,
And every knight return'd to dry
The tears his love had shed.
IV.
Our gallant host was homeward bound
[...] Read more
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Gisli: The Chieftain
To the Goddess Lada prayed
Gisli, holding high his spear
Bound with buds of spring, and laughed
All his heart to Lada's ear.
Damp his yellow beard with mead,
Loud the harps clang'd thro the day;
With bruised breasts triumphant rode
Gisli's galleys in the bay.
Bards sang in the banquet hall,
Set in loud verse Gisli's fame,
On their lips the war gods laid
Fire to chaunt their warrior's name.
To the Love-queen Gisli pray'd,
Buds upon his tall spear's tip;
Laughter in his broad blue eyes,
Laughter on his bearded lip.
[...] Read more
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto V.
I
Call it not vain;-they do not err,
Who say, that when the Poet dies,
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
And celebrates his obsequies:
Who say, tall cliff and cavern lone
For the departed Bard make moan;
That mountains weep in crystal rill;
That flowers in tears of balm distill;
Through his lov'd groves that breezes sigh,
And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave
II
Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those, who, else forgotten long,
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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